Always
by Let's Explode
Summary: Mello looks at me with worry, or at least I think it is, because I've never seen him like this. I take one look in his eyes and suddenly, it's clear that he's being sincere this time, and that if anyone's a liar, it'd be me. Matt/Mello/Matt, REPOST
1. One

Title: **Always**  
Author: Let's Explode  
Rated: M  
Genre: Romance/Drama  
Disclaimer: Let's Explode does not own Death Note.

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A/N: This is a newer, improved version of the other 'Always' I've written. I've been revising (but not completely altering) practically the whole thing. Hopefully, this version will have lesser grammatical errors, spelling mistakes or paragraphs in which I've been spouting nonsense. I have no beta, and I'm not perfect, so don't scream if there still is an occasional mistake; I'm just doing my best. :D I'll be introducing newer chapters to continue the story, but nothing too traumatizing, of course. ;P Okay, I'll stop rambling now.

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**Chapter 1: One**

_I can't live around you._

**Always**_  
_

I like to think I'm a not real. A fictional character or a virtual hero, I guess, because the good guys always win in fantasies. There are no 'what if's or 'possibilities' because when you're off in _La-la Land, _everything goes the way that it's made to be. The bad guys lose, the good guys win and get the girl, or guy, if you like that sort of thing. Either way, the heroes always win.

The hero's the one with the story- past, present and future. The hero's the one who everyone expects would solve all the conflict in the world. It's a common theme, to let conflict pull everyone's interest. The excitement in drama is what craps the whole thing up, the plot that the writer or programmer got going on, because it's all the same. Just when you get your heart racing, the conflict ends.

And then you feel empty.

It's seems like some sort of masochism to me. What's so great about conflict anyway? Why do people favour it so much in fantasy but never in reality? There is always too much pain, too much tears and effort involved. It seems only rational that people should hate it. Too bad for us suckers, conflict likes playing us like a violin, no matter if you have done practically nothing your whole life because that's what makes us so flawed and so 'human'.

Humans suck. I would know what I'm talking about. Last time I checked, I was definitely human. I tend to forget sometimes, you know? I dedicate my time in behavioural study, but that's just another fancy word for stalking. I don't mind putting myself down with insults, because if the words ring true, then I don't see the point in lying to anyone.

Near calls me honest. Roger calls me rude. L calls me blunt. They all have garbled rubbish opinions of me, but they don't matter as much as Mello does. He calls me an asshole, a prick, a fucktard, a dick, a retard… the list goes on long enough to impress even me.

Yeah, I know. He must be _so _great. I don't press it because I've never really cared to begin with. I won't say this aloud, but he's a hypocrite; he isn't exactly a ray of sunshine either. He's volatile and violent, I would even say murderous. He acts like he steps on shit all the time. I call it his inferiority complex, but I never say it to his face.

I must be some kind of coward to have pulled this off for years. Heck, who am I kidding? I _am _a coward.

Look for the guy who has his head down, looking kind of creepy when the light off the screen of the PSP, DS, Nintendo or whatever it is he has in his hands is reflected on his goggles. He's not risking looking anyone directly in the eye. If you don't see him, that's okay, because sometimes, I don't see him either.

He's me.

Christened as 'Matt' when I was somewhere around five or six, a guy with a sob story, but hey, it's not like I'm the only one. I used to live in an orphanage, so things like that are common. I'm still convinced that I used to be followed, stalked, studied or something, because some British guy with a white moustache just so 'happened' to know I was in trouble, just so 'happened' to have broken down the front door to that old apartment, a gun in his hands. He had just so 'happened' to have enough evidence of my parent's felonies to have them behind bars for a long time. Go figure.

Sure, my parents are alive, but they were charged with too many crimes for them to even think of the possibility of seeing me again. Charged for possession, drug abuse, theft, and hmm, child abuse- but those are just technicalities. I don't miss them, and I don't want to see them again.

My parents suck along with the other humans, only they suck more. They made me hack and steal from ATM machines, but I'm not here to talk about that.

Now that I think about it, why am I even here at all?

I live in a sad kind of apartment with Mello, with the wallpaper peeling off, the furniture and bed threadbare, but at least there's hot water in the grimy bathroom. I pay for it all, the water, the electricity that I use so much of, the food in the fridge- mostly vodka, whiskey and chocolate- everything. It's not much and it's not home, but it does me good to feel independent. Heck, I can even say I feel proud.

I don't complain about the state of things here and neither does Mello, surprisingly, because I know he's spoiled enough to be tempted. I'm just bringing it to the fact that he's never here except to eat, piss, shower and yell at me for things like being stupid, being here, or being too obsessive.

I'm a chain smoker. I didn't use to be, but when Mello decided to just waltz back into my life, I think I deserve breathing time. He doesn't know that, though. I smoke too much, and when I don't smoke, I use nicotine patches (which suck), and when I don't do either, I take black coffee so strong your nose could bleed. But all day, every day, I'll have technology with me. I'm like Snow White on crack; I don't have animal friends, I have computers and games and pixels, toys and televisions. These things are my surrogates; the happy family I never had, the friends I didn't want, the fixes that keep me going... the Mello I used to know.

Mello, this new Mello, mentioned before, that I'm wasting his breath. He's said that I do nothing but sit my butt sore. He and I both know that that's untrue though, but he's a lot less willing to acknowledge it.

I'm not Mello. I don't want to parade around like a peacock and watch the world stare. I won't flaunt how deep I am in shit like he does. It's reckless and dangerous, and I'm not the one who has a whole mafia who would back his behind no matter what. Being a mafia leader has brought him too high up in his head. I still want that innocent, grumpy Mello I used to know.

Now he treats me like a servant, only I tolerate him without any sort of wage. Yeah, I'm starting to get a little sick of it, and I'm starting to think I deserve better than this. Things shouldn't go his way all the time, and I think he should know. Sure, things are working miraculously for him now, but I know luck doesn't stretch too long a time.

All Mello has ever had to do at Wammy's to get his way was show his fist, but that's just mindless bullying compared to what I see these days. Bullying won't work on his cronies in the least, so now he scares them. He pulls out his gun, ready to fire.

He acts so sure when he does that. His eyes are always blazing, cocky and it hurts that he's not the same. I remember years ago when he had sworn to me that he would never kill a man. I'm starting to believe that moment had only been a figment of my imagination. Now, he uses his gun plenty, killing people regardless their kind, killing people in more ways than just shooting.

It just doesn't sit with me.

My Mello hung around me because while everyone else had been too afraid of him, I was merely indifferent. The Mello I used to know said things like 'pardon' and 'excuse me' and damn it, every 'sorry'. He's not the same anymore. He's all leather and danger and adrenaline - much too violent and impulsive than he ever had been before. He's all motorbikes and ladies, and alcohol.

And still he prays at night with that crucifix, uttering prayers for his selfish needs, claiming it's for the better. I hear him all the time, every night when he thinks I'm asleep. _"Please, let me win," _or _"Let me kill him", _his pleas are all kinds of atrocious. He's not so much of a saint. I see him differently.

But I never say anything.

I think it's why he still comes back to me, even after all this time.

_(… but I don't know if I control me, or he does…)_

_(… I don't know if I can take anymore…)_

I've shut myself up for so long, and I think I've had it. People never see me as the better. I'm just the guy poor Mello's stuck with. I'm just the guy Mello hangs around with. I know what they say about me: they call me his lapdog, his servant, his- I'm not! I'm not, okay? I'm just... I'm just Number Three. It's all I am.

But I think I've had it with it all. Maybe I'll speak up and speak out, for once in my life.

* * *

I cough violently, something happening a lot lately. I really shouldn't be smoking when I'm diagnosed with asthma. I never had to use my inhaler before I started my nicotine addiction, but this reluctant reliance on medication isn't going to make me stop. Maybe I'll consider when smoking gets critically bad for me. I don't have any intention to live so long, anyway.

I'm just surviving life.

Taking a little, teeny tiny step at a time because I'm a wimp and I'm lazy. There's no need to rush into life, in my opinion. I always say not to take a risk if it's not worth it, and hell, nothing is ever worth it. Not even life. Mello, my Mello used to say that when there's a risk involved, then it's always worth taking. Yeah, he's a reckless bastard, but I'm not a fool to ignore that he's right.

We're both right, in a way. We always are.

The hinges of the front door protest loudly as it is forced open. Mello enters like he owns this bust up lame place. He does his routine, kicking off his boots and they tumble to the floor across the room with dull thuds. Mello shrugs off his leather jacket and leaves it on the floor, a gesture that tells me that Mello wants it cleaned again. He marches off to the fridge and pulls out the last of the fifty bars of chocolate I bought just five days back and gives me a look, brandishing his bar in the air. This means I have to run to the store again. I've already been given this membership deal down at the store, me being a regular customer now and all.

Discreetly, I sigh. The things I do for Mello. I must be sick and pathetic, to do these things for him when I don't benefit even in the slightest. He makes me clean, dry clean; waste my green (that rhymed because I think I'm a potential poet). I sound like a greedy idiot to calculate every cent that goes out of my wallet, but honestly; thirty five hundred dollars a month?

He plops down unceremoniously beside me, peering at me curiously as I bring down another firewall. It's so easy to pretend I'm not watching or listening, that I'm unaware of everything else. It's the reason I make a good spy and information gatherer. Mello thinks I'm too absorbed in the things I do, just like the others who have ever had seen me before. Poppycock, but what do I care what anyone thinks?

I'm nobody, and I like myself that way.

No one's going to cry at my funeral. I'm not even going to leave a will.

No one should miss me, not even Mello. If he can leave me without a word over and over again, I can leave him in just the same way. It shouldn't be so hard.

"Matt," Mello finally speaks to me. That makes the fourth time in total this week, but I'm just surprised he has actually said my name this time, even if he did use it with irritation. One would think with us living together and all, we'd talk more. Yeah, I've gotten used to the disappointment.

Maybe he thinks I can't focus on him with my supposed 'attention' on the laptop. It bothers him because he craves attention like an alcoholic would whiskey.

L has mentioned to me, more than once actually, about my ability to focus my full attention on many things at once without wearing myself down, like upgraded or advanced multitasking or something. _"If you let me, I could hone your mind into one of the brightest the world will ever see." _L haad also said that I could easy snag the title number one, if I put more effort in my studies instead of myself.

I was the first person to know of L's death in Wammy's. It had been a real pain in the ass to do, but I managed to hack into his own laptop for it all. Everything was there; his evidence, his files, _everything, _and I had them copied to my own disk. I began investigating, and when Roger found out he was livid, but he knew he no longer needed to tell me the day he told both Mello and Near.

They think I have lived as a hacker for these five years, and they're partially right. I tried stepping in L's shoes, trying them on for size before I decided that that guy wasn't who I'm supposed to be. I called it quits, deleted everything I knew without looking back.

Because I had been doing _exactly _what L wanted; succeeding him.

I never wanted to. I never wanted to be a detective either.

Another thing L mentioned about me: I think far too much to be healthy. This is why Mello's visibly pissed right now, so annoyed that he's flipped my laptop shut, which is really stepping far across the imaginary line I have made. Rip my clothes, sure. Take my drinks, fine. Break my bones, I don't care. Touch my technology? Hell no. The thought that he might have closed the program I had been using bothers me, but not enough to make me show any visible reaction. I wonder if this is self-control or shock.

He shakes me roughly, bruising my arms as he hisses, "Asshole! Listen to me!"

"Hmm?" I question, gently prying his hands off of me. I don't like the feel of someone pushing me down physically rather than mentally.

Mello snarls angrily, because there really never is another emotion other than _anger _when it comes to the blonde. "Would it kill you to just listen to me for once?"

_I do listen to you, _I want to say. _Or am I not listening hard enough?_

I implant cameras in high security areas and I spend days without eating or sleeping, hacking into things for you just because you tell me to. I listen to your rants on Near, about how you're so close to beating him, how much you deserve to be the best. I stick by you for no reason at all and I can just walk out, but I don't because I think you'll change back. You put up with me because you have no one else to talk to, and you don't care if I'm someone you don't like at all.

None of those words come out. Instead, I cock my head aside like a fool, asking, "Yeah?"

I get on every one of his nerves just like everyone does. Sure, Near sets Mello's nerves ablaze, but I think I embed myself there, impossible to get rid of. I'm just a pest. He bites his tongue to prevent himself from screaming out loud, letting me go finally. He throws his chocolate bar at me and I catch it reflexively, accidentally.

He's angrier.

"Fuck, you prick!" he yells at me. "I wanted you off your lazy ass setting up bugs and cameras in the SPK! I wanted you to watch them, and you're here doing something so fucking pointless!" He points his finger at the laptop. "What the fuck do you think you were doing playing around?" Mello's (aquamarine... piercing blue-green) eyes are throwing daggers in my way, but I'm too busy trying to regain feeling in my right arm.

I jerk my thumb into the single bedroom in this apartment, the one that used to be mine before he came, and I _still don't complain. _"They're already bugged. You go ahead and watch them. They're boring." As am I.

He's surprised by my defiance, and I like that I have caught him off guard. The blond is standing now, and he's – surprise, surprise - pissed. His breathing is heavy and he pulls at his hair. "I _gave _you an order! You don't tell me what to do! You were supposed to fucking spy on them! _Easy like shit!"_

The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. "So why don't you do it? Easy like shit, right? Shouldn't be a challenge for you."

His eyes narrow dangerously. "Are you insinuating that I am an idiot? I dare you to say that again."

I am treading on very, _very, _dangerous grounds, but I like the steady rush of adrenaline. It's so refreshing and new- so much more different, so much better than nicotine. "I'll say it as many times as you want me to. Why can't you do it?" I'm feeling so brave, suddenly. I think I don't mind having a death wish. Near is, after all, what _Mello_ wants to overcome. Number One is Mello's goal, and not mine. So why do I have to do his bidding? I'm tired of being referred to as a dog.

"Shut the fuck up, Matt." he hisses, and pulls out his semi-automatic and presses the barrel of the gun to my brow. I don't stiffen, I don't relax. I simply do not react. "Shut up. Shut up, or I'll kill you."

I keep my gold-tinted eyes on him rather than on the gun, and I tell him, "Do it, then." He's been killing me slowly, and I'm sick with it. He might as well get it over with. Of course, Mello's pressed the gun to my head many more times than I can count, but I've never challenged him to shoot until now. I have never spoken like this with him. I don't know what to feel or how to react, so I don't. I don't know if he will just shoot me, because Mello never backs down from a challenge.

But he still needs me...

... Right?

"You're useless," he tells me, and he stalks off into the bedroom, slamming the door loudly. The sound rings in my ears longer than necessary. His temper is murderous, and I've triggered it, faced it, and directly challenged it. I survived it, but only because he let me. I look down to my laptop, now a small scratch on its surface. I switch it on to see the program lost, and I sigh.

_Only to your eyes, Mello, _I say inwardly. _I am._

TBC

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Reviews inspire me. :)

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Seriously. :P


	2. Two

A/N: This chapter is a whole lot more different than the original version, but I think it's way, way better. Thanks so much for all the feedback, and a happy Christmas, happy Hanukkah, and a happy New Year! :)

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**Chapter 2: Two**

_Forget this._

**Always**

Mello is trying to drag the fridge into the bedroom. I only watch him from the couch. His determination to get this done is comical, if not almost endearing. At the beginning he had tried to pull it along with him, but now he's trying to force it forward with his back. I want to make a snide comment or two, like how he wouldn't be struggling so much if his ass isn't so skinny, or how ridiculous he looks, but I bite my tongue.

He's trying to ignore me, or I'm supposed to be ignoring him- I forget which.

Either way, it's clear to me why he isn't mouthing off or screaming for me to haul my ass up and help him. He's trying to prove that he can get things done without me, that he can manage just fine without my help. I'm not protesting in the least. I've been worked like a dog, and I should know I deserve a little relaxing time.

He's watching me from the corner of his eyes, obviously waiting for me to do something. I only lean further into the couch, silently telling him I could really care less. His lips press into a thin line, turning away from me. He braces himself against the fridge again, and he kicks and pushes his feet against the floor, trying (and failing) to move the blasted thing.

Mello ends up falling flat on his ass. The fridge falls forward, its door swinging open. I hear egg shells breaking, bottles clanking and shattering, and the floor becomes an absolute mess around him. Despite knowing that he's going to leave the mess for me to clean, I snicker at the sight a little. A mistake, because I should know by now Mello won't stand for being ridiculed. He is already on his feet, stalking toward me, and before I can register anything else-

_Bam! _He whips my head with his gun, and hard.

"What the fuck?" I cuss out, cringing at the stars I see for a moment. I try my best not to touch the growing bump or to shield my head from him. I won't show that I'm vulnerable enough to hurt, even if he does hurt me so well.

I feel a gloved hand running through my hair before it fists and yanks hard enough to tear a few strands from my scalp. My (bruising) head is forced up to meet Mello's cold eyes. Under my chin, I feel him press the barrel of his gun. "Something funny, _Matt?_" he hisses, yanking harder at my hair.

My throat is too parched suddenly, and my lips are dry for words. My tongue darts out to moisten them before I grin toothily.

Roughly, he lets go of me, tucking the gun back into his pants. Shooting me a dirty glare, he spits, "I didn't think so. Wipe that grin off of your face before I wipe it _for_ you." I easily hear the deadly warning in his words. He doesn't bother waiting for me to reply, clearly thinking I'm frightened enough, and he turns back to the mess to salvage something.

Finally finding my voice, I cough out, "What happened to 'please', Mello? You used to say that last time."

There are two bottles of scotch whisky in his hands when I finally gather the nerve to look at him again. He steps over the mess as I expect him to, and heads off into the bedroom without so much as another glance in my direction. What he does do, however, is say, "Today isn't last time. _Please _grow the fuck up, Matt."

The quiet returns to the apartment with a vengeance.

I notice he leaves the bedroom door wide open, just in case I decide to utter an apology to him. He's going to be facing one hell of a disappointment. I've been thinking a lot lately, that it's about time I force my way through his head, _make _him listen to me. I won't take any more. I'm sticking with my decision to speak up and speak out. One can only fight fire with fire.

"Funny words," I yell out, just to test my newfound courage, just for good measure, "From a guy who's yet to grow up himself!"

Holy hell, I'm pathetic. He doesn't even deem my words worthy of a reply. That, or maybe he's fully focusing again on stalking Near. If I know Mello –old or new- and I know I do, he's probably regretting taking his eyes off of the video feeds in favour of attempted fridge stealing. Stalking the sheep is _so _important, after all.

Asshole.

I sometimes forget that we had been best friends at some point in the past. What with the way he outright refuses to spend even a fifth of the attention he gives Near on me, I ought to be recognised as a faceless stranger. As much as I hate having to live through all this unnecessary abuse, I hate his ignorance even more. How the hell did _this _become possible?

Near is probably the first and last thing on his mind. It stings more than I expect it to.

Yeah, maybe I'm jealous, or maybe I'm just so cheesed off that I can't have Mello's eyes on me for any longer than thirty seconds. Even _then, _I still doubt that I can make him look at me. No, forget looking at me, I want him to _see_ me, and not Number Three anymore. Fuck that. I don't want him to see the gamer, or the lazy asshole, or the hacker, or the mafia associate. I want him to look right at me and see only me.

He just looks through me.

Torturously slowly, but steadily, I let myself believe that my Mello isn't ever going to resurface. I doubt he even exists anywhere else but in my half-forgotten memories anymore. That's as good as gone, like L, and I've got no one but this stranger. He's familiar, definitely, but he's also more alien to me. He's too dominating, domineering, cruel... too different from my Mello.

I've been tearing myself up about this, been looking for someone to blame for what has happened to him and us. It has taken me a while to find the right person at fault: Kira. If it weren't for Kira, L wouldn't be dead. Mello wouldn't have ever changed. Mello wouldn't have ever left.

I remember four years ago, at an ungodly hour, running into his and Near's shared bedroom to see him gone. The bedroom window was left wide open, the curtains flying wildly with the wind. Rain and snow entered like a curse, spreading about the disaster zone without consent. Even Near's things hadn't been spared from wreckage. Mello's books and Near's toys, among other things, were haphazardly scattered across the floor, torn or broken. There had been darkening red stains on the wall, suspiciously shaped like hands and fists, and I remember my stomach lurching.

Everything had been ruined.

I had found Near huddled in a corner in his closet, curled in on himself. He told me how angry Mello had been, at him, at L, at Kira. Near and I both faced the window, his hand shaking in mine, but all that registered in me was that Mello was out there somewhere.

Near and I decided it was best not to look for Mello. If he had left without any notice, it was obvious that he had no intention of letting himself be followed or found. _It's okay, _I said. _He can totally defend himself. __Mello's smart, _I said.

I doesn't matter what I said.

Sometimes I wonder if Mello had even hesitated to walk out through those iron gates. I knew he would have wanted to leave for revenge the minute he found out about L, but I guess I just didn't expect that he would leave no note, or number, or even something as simple as a goodbye.

It's funny. I thought I was worth saying goodbye to.

Went on with life, I did, and I can say that I've been doing pretty well. I have made a friend or two, and hacking bank accounts have granted me a pretty good lifestyle, or as good as an illegal lifestyle can be anyway. Until months ago, when Mello came barging in right through my door, I had figured that growing up meant going our separate ways.

We _did _grow up with separate lives, lifestyles, environments, and I think that's why everything went wrong. Some time somewhere down the road to the underworld, Mello had himself stripped off of heart, rationality, innocence, and _God knows _what's he's done to end up like _this_. My Mello had always known reason, but my Mello also isn't here anymore.

He's gone.

I guess a devil had told him to damn all the consequences, to forget reason; forget all that ever made him who he had been. He thinks a conscience can only hinder him from his sick goals. Now, he can twist words and bones like candy wrappers; he can seal fates of those who've wronged him with his gun; he could kill me.

He _can _kill me.

So what's stopping him?

* * *

Seconds yawn into minutes, and then into hours.

I'm smoking fags like my life depends on it. The mess is still there on the floor, unsurprisingly, because he refuses to lower himself to my level and start cleaning the shit up. I roll my eyes. He's not proving his independence, or anything worth noting to me. As a matter of fact, his predictable dependence on others (me) is beginning to sully my (admittedly questionable) opinion of him.

I'm still on the couch, alone, if the unopened bag of potato chips beside me hardly counts as company. Unfortunately for me, it lacks presence or warmth, and inanimate objects don't provide any conversation. Hell knows I need a distraction to pull my mind off of things.

After a while of feeling like an idiot, I decide gaming will suffice, if only just for the moment. Almost in a laughably eager way, I choose a game from my collection, carefully inserting –shoving- it into the Cube and I switch the contraption on. I let my gloved fingers get comfortable with the feel of the cool plastic console, willing myself (and failing) to focus completely.

It's Mario, with the annoying, happy-go-lucky boop-de-beep tune, mushroom stomping, and the repeating failure of saving Princess Peach from the right tower. My arsenal here is painfully limited; the controls are too simplistic and the logic of the game is borderline barbarian. I only realise later, that the those are facts that help to sum up to my failure in trying to ignore myself.

My gut keeps lurching in the most disastrous manner, like it's goading me to feel bad about these recent events. Like hell I will; I'm not _that _much of a pushover. I expose myself _only_ to brewing anger and impatience. I know that if I don't feel content with his ignorance, anger is what I ought to feel. Mello has yet to make a move, and the wait is the worst.

What will he do? Pretend nothing has happened? Threaten me? _Kill_ me?

I want to know.

I want to know why in spite of both my bitterness and better judgement, I end up thinking thoughts of Mello. Like I need to. I could have handled them thoughts had they been the nasty ones you give your enemy. Instead I think of the stupid things that shouldn't matter to me, like how soft Mello's hair looks, or how his eyes are like icy fire when he's angry.

I'm so weird and pathetic, I'm upset with myself. Some genius I turned out to be. Honestly, I'm disgracing L's legacy. I'm supposed to know more than the average Joe. I can fit millions, maybe billions of pieces of information (more than half of which I know are never going to amount to much). I've been trained to _know, _and not to feel so fucking stupid. I should understand my emotional roller coasters completely, but I'm as good as lost.

I don't understand why Mello makes me _feel_.

A voice in my head tells me that the answer is bloody simple. Heh.

I should probably stop thinking and focus more on Mario. I'm only giving myself worse a headache than I already have. Too bad not thinking isn't as easy as it should be. Too bad nothing is easy anymore. I end up sinking deeper, almost drowning in my thoughts, reminiscing like I'm denial of the present. I know I am. Memories only worsen my mood, but I can't stop remembering.

Who am I kidding in this life anyway? I'm barely nineteen and I feel so much older. I feel if I let things with Mello go on like this any longer, I might as well off myself dead because I'd be good for him as a zombie. He's changed _that _drastically, almost enough for me to take a while to remember what he had been like years before.

Could you believe that it's only been four years? I want to relive the past, to forget this shit of a life I have now. What I wouldn't give to see my Mello again.

This imposter is taking too much from me: my thoughts, my mind, et cetera. I haven't minded before, but there is only so much toil and verbal abuse I can take. I've been letting him push me and hurt me so much, and what do I get in return? Fucking ignorance. More pain and more misery. Every bit of rage I've received from him, everything I've been through, every bead of sweat, blood and every tear comes rushing in my mind like an uncontrollable stampede.

Suddenly, I decide to forget contemplating second chances and tolerance. I only see an anger I have never thought I could possess, and I feel it rushing. It's searing hot and unhealthy, but it is as addictive as any drug can get. It's like heroin, encouraging me into illusions of bravery. I like feeling brave.

Hell knows I've been a coward for too long.

"What's with the look on your face?" Mello's voice cuts through my thoughts. I didn't even notice him skulking in the corner. He sounds suspicious of me, but all I wonder now is how come he's gotten tired of snubbing me so quick. He's lived without me for four years, after all. One would think that he would cave from lack of company a little later than this.

Still, I wipe the glower off my features, putting a facade of cold indifference. I put up pretences of focusing completely on playing Mario and not hearing him. I don't even look in his direction. I want to give him a taste of his own ignorance, make him lose his temper like he's made me lose mine. I want us both angry when I confront him.

Unfortunately, he thinks I'm too distracted to hear him, so he wants to direct my attention to him. He steps in front of the television, the only place he is sure my eyes are trained on. He blocks my view of the game, but I'm not going to turn my head away from him. That would imply that I'm paying him some mind, that I'm afraid to even look at him. I'm _not._

Taking in the sight of him now, I see his hands clenched so tight his knuckles are bone white. I see a scowl gracing his lips, his normally picture-perfect hair unusually messy. There are bruises hanging under his eyes, hinting sleepless nights. I wonder why I haven't noticed before. It takes half of me, but I manage to remind myself not to react.

I hear my character's dying music play after a minute of blindly playing, and though I can't see it, I know the screen reads '_Game Over__'. _It's like someone up in the heavens has read my mind exactly. I want to end Mello's reign over me, and I want to make it clear that I won't let him control me anymore. I can be my own person.

Mello breaks the silence first. "Enough of this."

I could say the exact same thing. Forget confusion; it's time to be impetuous for once in my life. I don't know what I'm going to do now, but like hell Mello will stop me. A loss of patience gnaws at me, grating at my skin, whispering tempting ideas that fuel me to speak my mind. The angrier part of me is like a cauldron of bubbling lava, threatening to spill over and wreak havoc. Anger tells me, _forget Mello. _I _am_ my own person.

I don't want to be his lapdog.

I don't want to be anyone's lapdog.

I don't want to be a fucking lapdog at all.

He crosses his arms and looks at me expectantly, "Well?"

"Well _what_." It comes out more like a scathing statement than a question. "You're going to have to be a little more specific." My bad mood is worsening by the second. A panicked voice tells me to look away from him, to calm myself down, but I force it away. I watch him, completely transfixed.

"Well, how long does it fucking take for a person to apologise?" he hisses. I pretend not to hear him, flexing my fingers around the game controller. "I've given you shit loads of time to do it, Matt, but it looks like you've lost half your brain. Look. I've had enough of your attitude-"

Oh, _he's _had enough? _He_ thinks he has had enough? What about what I think? In case he's forgotten, I'm very much capable of thinking, damn it. I'm capable of feeling, and hurting, and _hating. _Is he so conceited, so stuck up in his head not to think of what I'm feeling? Is he so fucking superior? Does he care about me at all? The way he addresses me, treats me, the air he carries around himself reveals everything. He takes shit from no one, sure, but what he's giving me right here is lower than shit.

_(... Aren't we supposed to be best friends?)_

"_You've _had enough." I say, snorting. I run a hand through my hair and make a fist, yanking just like Mello has done earlier. I feel the large bruise under my fingers, and a migraine heading my way. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. _I've _had enough."

An eyebrow shoots upwards as he appraises me with a critical eye. "Isn't that the same thing? You going to say you're sorry or what?"

"What difference does it make?" I question. "I'm only going to piss you off again. Hell knows everything pisses you off."

Mello's eyes narrow dangerously. "One would think a person would learn from his mistakes."

I cock my head aside, a wry smirk tugging at my lips. "One would think a person would realise that he's done nothing wrong. It looks like, Mello, we're both disappointed."

There I see it, his temper flaring. Mello takes a step toward me, approaching me like a serial killer would his next victim; always making each second mean much more than it should. "You fucking dolt! You were told to watch the SPK. It was a simple order, dipshit, and you were slacking like-"

I don't listen anymore. The only words that get in my head are _'you were told' _and _'simple order'. _He's treating me like a dog again. Maybe I don't have so much of a bark, but I'm no longer afraid to bite. Lifting my chin up defiantly at him, I steadily meet his eyes for the first time in years. The goggled blue eyes of mine lock on molten hot aquamarine.

Dispassionately, I say, "You know the saying: if you want something done, do it yourself. In case you've forgotten, I didn't _ask_ for an involvement in any of this shit."

"You sure as fuck didn't complain, _Matt,_" he hisses venomously. "I asked _you _to watch them for a bloody reason. I asked _you _for help for a fucking reason."

I bark out in derisive laughter. "You? _Ask _me? You never _ask _me to do anything. No, Mello, _never _ask me anything." Feeling slightly at a disadvantage sitting down, I shoot up from the couch. I barely register myself throwing the game controller across the room, but Mello's eyes are wide as they follow it. The controller flies like a shot, hitting the wall with a loud crack that does nothing to break the awful tension. It crashes onto the floor completely in pieces, tinkering and scattering.

I stalk my way to him, closing off the distance between our chests because I'm brave enough, suddenly. Startled, Mello almost jolts, but he doesn't back away. Of course not. I spit, "You never _ask, _Mello. You _always _tell. You always order me around! Didn't you notice?" I grab his arms, shaking him. "Holy _fuck, _Mello, don't you _notice?"_

He tries to get my grip off of him, but my hands only tighten. He shakes his head, expression contorting into one crossed between rage and something else (_do I see fear?). _I forget he's armed, but when he pulls out his gun and presses it between us, the barrel aimed right for my abdomen, I'm hardly deterred. Vaguely, I hear it click.

"I—" Mello starts, but I cut him off too quickly.

My eyes are still dead on his. "I'm tired of all of this, you get me? I. Have. Had. It. No more ordering me around, no, more forcing shit, no more fucking hurting me, no more! _No more. _I won't take another goddamn moment with you."

And then I see it clearly: confusion, unease. I _swear _I can almost see my Mello until he clears his eyes from showing any emotion, and his tone holds one of malice, albeit an unconvincing one. "What are you talking about?"

He sounds like he genuinely does not know. I seethe. If he doesn't know what I'm talking about, then it's not worth the fight. That's it, I'm done hoping.

"You know what?" I ask lightly. I let him go, turning my back to him. I'm hardly intimidated that he has a gun in his hand; it's lowered now anyway. I adjust my road kill vest and give him a half-smile. I hate that it comes out more awkward than distasteful. "I'm done."

He doesn't provide a reply, and the silence begins to really get me. He stands there frozen where I've left him, eyes completely on me, completely wide. A part of me wonders if he's looking at me right now, and not through me.

Does it even matter anymore?

I slip on my boots slowly and pick up my wallet and my apartment keys from the kitchen countertop. Sparing a glance over my shoulder as I head to the door, I see that his eyes hold something akin to apprehension, or worry, or fear. It confuses me. Am I delusional, or is it all just a clever trick of the light? This Mello has never felt these things before, so why should he now? He shouldn't.

_(... Don't make me feel guilty, damn it. I've done nothing wrong!...)_

"Where are you going?" his voice is harsh, but shaky. I like to imagine that I've finally gotten through his bubble and that I've made him listen, but I won't be sticking around anymore to find out. I can't let myself go through the disappointment I'd feel if I'm wrong.

I think I've been in over my head when I had thought before, that everything still has a chance of changing back to the way it has been before.

Aren't we just too different now?

I shrug, "I've had enough of this. I'm out."

He looks stricken, but only for a mere second or two. Of course, Mello isn't going to break his composure entirely for something as lowly as a dog. He isn't going to lower his guard; he isn't going to lose it like I'm about to.

Mello tries to laugh in return, but he sounds borderline hysterical. He shakes his head in something like denial or acceptance- I don't know. Although he clearly is trying to hide it, I see that his eyes still betray him. I see that he's not okay with me leaving.

I don't enjoy seeing him like this, but my nightmares have already shown me that there are worse things that could happen to him than having lost an -dog, number three, minion, zombie- ally. I steel myself forward, telling myself that I hate this life and I want out of it. I _need _out of it.

His tone, when he speaks, holds the fakest sort of amusement. "You think I'll miss you or something? You'll be doing me a favour." I hold my tongue from saying anything. He gives me a wild grin that looks slightly forced. I try to convince myself that he hates me, and that he could care less that I'm leaving. It makes me feel a whole lot better than having to walk out on someone who cares.

I shrug again, not even bothering with goodbyes.

_(...I don't trust myself to speak...)_

Turning away, I exit past the door, telling myself I didn't hear that last whisper of "I don't need you."

_If you're convinced. _I whisper back in my head. _I've never needed you either._

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